Sheik's Coffee Day
by Irene T447
Summary: After a rough night the evening before, Sheik wants nothing more than a good cup of Joe. Too bad he's got a slob for a roommate who drank all the coffee. Oh, and his period started. Yes, that's right. His period. Enter the life of a transgender male who wants the best out of life in a world that doesn't understand him.
1. Chapter 1

I woke up this morning feeling like a zombie from the Walking Dead. Everything hurt, and by that I mean everything. When I tried to move my arm from it's awkward bent position from beneath my stomach (I fell face first into bed last night like a boss, still wearing clothes from work - black shirt and now very wrinkled semi-formal dress pants - and sorta stayed like that) a string of pain shot from my shoulder all the way through to the other side of my collarbone (I really hope I didn't do any serious damage). Then I tried screaming, you know, something logical and suitable when in pain, "Oh shit!". It ended up coming out a little more like, "Oh sh-aaawwwww!". Apparently, screaming takes muscle strength, specifically, abdominal strength. According to my own very unofficial diagnosis, my abs are bruised….or torn. Take your pick. I started laughing after that. Come on, you gotta admit that it's pretty damn funny when you can't even get out of bed, let alone scream profanities when you wake up in the morning and you feel like someone ran you over with an F-250. If you ask me, a man is entitled to screaming profanities in the morning if he damn well pleases. You know what also takes ab strength? Laughing.

Hilarious.

I ended up sobbing in bed.

What I wouldn't give to have some me some badass golden qi and go Super Sayan. I have the hair for it, anyway. Does anyone know Dragon Ball Z anymore? Or is everyone still obsessed with pokemon? You know, one of these days, GameFreak is going to run out of colors, metals, gems and Greek letters. I mean, think about it: Ash, or Satoshi, or whatever his name is should be in his twenties by now. The fact that Cartoon Network still has him out as a ten year old is a lie. Who am I kidding? I used to love pokemon as a kid, so I'll stop ripping on it.

I slid out of bed, bruised bruises, and crawled to the kitchen. Not actually that impressive of an accomplishment when one's kitchen is two feet from the bed. I'm renting half of a duplex from this old guy who lives on a retired cattle farm. The land is gorgeous. The sun rises every morning at around 5 o'clock and paints the rolling landscape in gold and amber hues. Priceless. The place is an old farmhouse fit with wood smelling doorways, off colored bedrooms, drawers with the scent of mothballs to punch you in the face, and many windows facing all directions to see the vast landscape dotted with "elephant hay bales". The old man raised his kids here, but they're all grown up now. He thought the place was too big for him, so he split the house in half. My half had an upstairs bed and bath, refurbished and painted, downstairs bath, kitchen and adjoining living room that is currently my bedroom, and plenty of closet space. I couldn't be happier, especially with that spectacular view. The man was willing to rent me for dirt cheap, and I didn't even consider turning down his offer. The life happened. The old man got into some financial trouble for something he did awhile ago that came back to bite him in the butt. At the turn of the year, my rate doubled, which I couldn't pay on my current salary.

Enter Tingle. He's...I don't know, a nice fellow? I think. I've literally only met him face to face six or seven times. He's short, plump, sort of like a pear, and takes immaculate care of his little orange mustache. He works primarily at night and sleeps during the day. He works with computers behind closed doors. To give him privacy, I let him have the upstairs. He likes to brag that he has the bigger bathroom, and I sucker punch him with the fact that I have a huge ass fireplace in my room. What Tingle does all night is a complete mystery to me. I can only speculate. He might be a hacker, or working for the government...or he might just be beta testing videogames. It's really hard to tell. All I know is that his boss is an angry Gerudo with whom he skypes every once in awhile, and I can hear her screaming at her kids(she works from home too) through the monitor and all the way downstairs. I know, weird, huh? Oh, and here's the kicker: He's not allowed to tell anyone what he does. I once walked in while he was skyping that woman. There wasn't anything interesting happening; they were just having a conversation, and he slammed the door in my face. I was really taken aback, but he apologized later. Whatever he does, I guess it pays well enough to cover half of the new rate.

I managed to pull myself to the counter, groggily fetch a cereal box of crumbs and some questionable milk before sitting at a table with spoon and bowl at a wobbly table.

...covered with tomato soup splattered stains. Sweet, Din, Tingle! First of all, this is all my space. Does he honestly not realize that? Sure, the only kitchen is downstairs, so coming down in the middle of the night is something of a necessity, but he could at the very least treat my table with a little respect. What did he do, throw his face into the soup bowl and eat it like a dog? It sure looked that way. After gagging through breakfast I cleaned up the soup stains, the desire to run upstairs and wake Tingle from his beauty sleep barely kept in check. I was _this _close to stomping up there and screaming at him. Talk about disrespect. He would totally deserve it too. I bet he watches porn all day on that computer.

Here's the thing. This is my space. These are my things. Sure, the table's wobbly. The floor's not in the best condition (yeah, still working on redoing that. I haven't found a reasonable quote yet, so we'll see). The oven finds guilty pleasure in charring all food it consumes in its dark cavernous mouth, and the stove is, at best, bipolar. But you know what? They're my wobbly table. My stove. My oven. And I like them, so Tingle, you can go to hell.

I realized after my mini temper tantrum in kitchen, fit with stomping, limping, and cringing in pain, that I needed coffee. Pronto. If there is one thing to restart your day and make things magically better, it's coffee.

Coffee. Roasted medium to perfection, ground fine. Swirled with a little bit of sweet cream and a jolting shot of espresso, mmm. You cannot get better than that. The hot liquid, to the point of scalding you tongue, slides into your mouth. The earthy fragrances yielding to subtle nutty flavors playing beneath a smoky surface. The substance warms you from the inside out, radiating heat through your hand. The scents that race through your nose, divine. You take another sip, and another, and your problems all just sort of melt away. Screw booze, the only beverage to take you on an adventure is coffee. Don't let any unrefined idiot tell you otherwise.

I limped to the cupboard hanging over the bipolar stove with a renewed vigor. I would make myself a cup of coffee, and everything would be just fine. Once I had a good cup of freshly brewed joe in hand, Tingle could set my table on fire using Napalm and I wouldn't even care.

Boom. Magic. I could practically taste the caffeine on my lips as I opened the cupboard. Only for devastation to descend. The coffee container, which I swore I filled just the other day, was depressingly void of coffee. I had some espresso, but honestly, taking it straight would never be the same. I tried it once. I maybe overdid it with six shots, but I was feeling adventurous. Never a good thing, feeling adventurous in high school. My heart beat like a hampster's for a good six hours, during which I thought I was going to die every second of it. I also accomplished close to nothing that day.

"Tingle!" I screamed. There was no reply. "Damn it!"

I went to the bathroom, making sure to slam the door just to be obnoxious. I made to do my business as usual, and noticed some spotting in my underwear.

"Gods, fucking damn it!"

Maybe now is the best time to introduce this. It's been nice talking with you, but if you want to run now, go for it. I won't judge. I was born Zelda Hylia. No, let me clarify: Zelda Hylia was born on June 17th, 19 years ago at a major hospital in Kakariko. She was 7 pounds, 14 ounces. She was half Sheikah, half Hylian. Her parents loved her, and for the longest time they didn't realize that she was never supposed to be. For the longest time, I didn't even come to that realization either. I've always hated her. Her womanly curves, ultrafine facial features that could shatter at the slightest touch, her soprano voice. I couldn't understand why I hated her so much. Why I could never look into mirrors. Why it felt like torture wearing dresses. Why when changes started happening to my body, I wanted to die so badly I would lock myself in my room to try to starve myself to death. I started fighting her when I was fifteen. My name is Sheik. That's who I am. I am a man.

I still get periods. Every month. I must have lost track of the number of days. Then again, I shouldn't have to keep track of the days. I'm not woman. I hate pads. First of all, texturally, it's disgusting. It makes me feel like I'm wearing a diaper. And sometimes you can tell I'm wearing one because they're visible beneath certain pants. Tampons are out of the question. No. Just, no. And then because of how frequently pads have to be changed, they serve as a constant reminder that I'm still biologically female. Now add crappy female hormones skyrocketing through the roof into the mix. I know a lot of women complain about their periods. But try to see it from my point of view. I hate periods because they hurt. I hate periods because they're messy and smelly. I hate periods because I get super emotional and do stupid things. But if there's one thing that trumps everything else that I hate, it's that they make me feel depressed. They make me hate myself. Make me feel like a freak. And when there are so many people in the world calling me that anyways, having that little devil whispering it in the back of my head during every waking hour, depression naturally follows. Not fun.

The recap: I woke a zombie, my roomate's a jackass, no coffee, and the little red she-devil appeared. I needed to get the hell out of the house.

I threw on a new set of clothes. Jeans, a black tee, mismatched socks, and a pair of two year old New Balance sneaks with fraying laces. I went to the back of the house, found my bike, but then I remembered the tires got slashed last night.

Imagine this: After just finishing an eight hour shift at Telma's Steakhouse and Bar bussing tables, I was in the mood for doing something a little outside my norm. Evening was setting in. I had a sudden burst of energy. Changing clothes and biking home sounded less than appealing.

I was never really the type to go hard partying in high school. I went to one really outrageous one where I felt like I was swimming through people, most of whom I didn't even know. The smell of body odor was unforgiving. So I left, and thankfully I did. I found out via gossip train that a lot of people got to know the police very well that night. Something about going 70 in a residential, underage drinking, and loud, disruptive music.

There's this new nightclub about a block and a half away from Telma's called Termina Nightclub, it's motto is : Dance Till the End of Days. Most of other servers have gone, said it's awesome. Apparently there's this giant 3D moon painted on the ceiling, that with the strobe lights and wacky color effects, looks like it's falling as the night goes on. I was always more than a little intrigued, but never had the excuse to go there and check it out myself. Last night, two servers, Tatl and Tael, siblings, one year apart, invited me to go with them. I said, "Fuck it. Sure, why not?". I didn't have anything better to do.

Big mistake. Big, big, big mistake. When I got there, it was like that high school party all over again. Only this time, I was swimming through pools of inebriated adults. I do not miss the scent of body odor. I navigated around, lost Tatl and Tael in the strobe lights and jumping crowd. The moon on the ceiling had a terrifying grimace on its face like he'd just found the man who killed his wife, and was beginning to creep me out. I was just about to leave, when I saw this pretty girl dancing on her own beside an empty booth. She was definitely loose. Muddy brunette hair swung arcs in the air as she bobbed her head to the hard bass beats rumbling overhead. She wore a tight striped camisole and black jeans that scarcely left anything to the imagination. I came over to her, flashed her a smile, offered to dance. A good forty minutes passed. I offered to buy her a drink, but I got shooed away from the bar since I'm not 21. We ended up making out in that booth for awhile instead. Gods was I horny. During our little fumbling session her hands found the binding around my chest, and then all hell broke loose. She started by slapping me across the face, called me a manipulative liar. She proceeded to bring her ex-boyfriend over to teach me a lesson. I'm 5-foot-7, which is actually pretty tall for a Hylian. Then again, my mom is tall, so I probably got a lot of height from her. Then there's this guy. He had to be close to 7 feet, built like a boar with a face to match. I swear he was 1/16th Goron. Lets just say he pummeled me. Bouncers intervened, police came, Mr. Goron got a citation. I was checked and told I would be sore in the morning. No biggie, right? Am I right?

As I was leaving, one of Mr. Goron's friends came up to me and shoved me off my bike. I went limp and pretended to be unconscious on the road when he slipped a knife and slashed my tires. I waited several minutes after he'd left, not without saying goodbye with a foot to my sternum. I'm just glad he didn't decide to slash me. I carried my bike back to Telma's, where she was still cleaning up for the night. I didn't even have to explain what happened. She told me to put my bike in the back of her pickup. First she asked if I needed to go to the hospital. I wasn't bleeding, and as horrible as I felt, I didn't think anything was broken. She drove me home. If you've never gotten the chance to meet her, Telma's probably the kindest woman in the world. She can be a little demanding, especially during the 5 o'clock rush, and when there are idiots taking up space at her bar, but she's got a lot of heart. She definitely cares about all of her employees, bends over backwards to make sure we're all okay.

She helped me unload my bike and got me inside. At the doorstep, she told me, "Take it easy, Sheik. You're one of my best men." I smiled at that. The last thing I remember is hearing Tingle's Gerudo boss screech, "Andrea, get the dog off the furniture!" from upstairs before falling into bed.

I started walking into town. It's about a ten minute walk when I'm not suffering from multiple subdural hematomas, so it took me about an hour. The old man's driveway is about half a mile long through a foresty area with thick vines and bulging berry trees that drop purple stained blotches onto the sand and gravel road. It was warm, dry; pleasant. The sky was an innocent blue. I wondered if I should tell my parents about what happened.

As I said before, my parents loved Zelda. It was difficult for me to feel as if they loved Sheik just as much. After I started dressing differently, there was a blank space I call the "period of awkwardness' of about two years where they would try to tiptoe around me. I think they always did love me as Sheik, it just didn't come across very well. Maybe they just didn't know how to express it. This is one of those things you know cerebrally,but the heart isn't quite convinced yet. I could tell you my family drama and all the really fun therapy sessions I've had, but I'll spare you the sob story. In essence, my parents finally came around and more or less accepted that I am not a girl. That being said, they were very uncomfortable with the idea of hormone therapy. They were even more uncomfortable with the surgical options.

After high school, I moved out using graduation money to a place about an hour and a half away, driving, that used to be a part of a large ranch. It's simply called Village of Lon Lon now. There's a Township of Lon Lon, a village of East Lon Lon, and a couple cities with a variety of similar names. In other words, it's more difficult to find me than you would think. I say, "I'm from Lon Lon," and people who aren't from here say , "Cool", not knowing that Lon Lon is actually a huge area. I did this for a several reasons. I don't actually know what I want to do with my life yet. I was always planning on taking a gap another note, I think I was trying to give my parents space, and I also wanted some time away from my parents. It's been a little over a year now. I've talked with my parents sparingly. I've been saving up for operations and I will be starting my first round of testosterone this month.

My mom is a pretty important person. Actually, both of my parents are. My mom is the head commissioner of the Kakariko task force, and my dad works for a growing architectural company. I'm sure mom would use her resources to try to keep me safe from a distance, and dad might even try to get me to come back home. I'm not sure what they expected for me, but I'm fairly certain that this isn't what they had in mind. If anything, I think they expected me to be happier.I still have a college fund that's been left untouched. I do plan on using it, just as soon as I stop feeling girly. As my parents, I do think they're entitled to the truth at least. Last night was, bar none, the most terrifying night of my life. I hope to never find myself in a situation like that again. So, I want to tell my parents because they love me and deserve to know. I also want to tell my parents that I am serious about physically changing. I just don't have a good way of expressing it yet.

Funny how that is.

I made it to the coffee shop and ordered caramel cappuccino, wanting something simple and sweet. The cafe girl wore make-up like an exotic mask, bright blue eyes outlined with black and a smoky blue. It was eye catching and drew me in for the few minutes it took for my drink to pop out. I took my drink and sat down beside a window and drank it all in.

I've been asked before if I'm a lesbian. The answer: No. Not a woman; not a lesbian. It's that simple. This was during high school, when my legal name was still Zelda, and I was referred to as "she", not "he" by some of the teachers, hence the misconception. I'd say I'm like a lot of guys. I want to find love with someone, marry, have children, raise a household. I want a beautiful wife who doesn't care about what my chromosomes look like. Only problem is: There are only so many people who identify themselves as pansexual, and as demonstrated by last night's fiasco, I take it there are a lot of women who feel deceived by people like me. Ironically, it's people like me who feel deceived by our own bodies.

I went up again to get another cup. I drank it down, feeling my body return to some semblance of "functional". I watched people strutting up and down busy streets in the hot sun. Some were tourists, you can always tell if they're wearing your local regalia. It's only sold in gift shops. I watched a large boned mother and her four children, one of whom was terrible-threes tantrum throwing wildchild running in the middle of the street, struggle past the shop. This went on for several minutes. Eventually, she resorted to picking the child up, upside down, and carrying him off. Nobody moved to help her. I understand that it isn't entirely by society to interfere with a mother and her children, but I think catching her child would have been appropriate in this case. Especially since he almost became a pancake in the road. Twice. A part of me wondered if anyone would have helped me up last night had I really been too injured to walk.

I'm a mess. See? What did I tell you? I get depressed. I figured I needed more coffee.

On my third round up, the cafe girl actually looked at me beyond that plastic stare she gives customers just before rattling off the day's specials. She tilted her head and pushed a lip out. "I know you," she said. "Are you from Kakariko by chance?"

"Uh…"

Yup, that was it. How does one respond to a situation like this in a humanly fashion? First of all, Kakariko is huge. I mean, huge. It takes about two hours to go from one end of the city to the other on a light traffic day. The chances of two people from Kakariko knowing each other are slim at best. Secondly, who is she? I honestly don't remember her. It might be the makeup. Or the really distracting perfume she's wearing, but I have no recollection of ever meeting her in my life.

I was a little jittery. The espresso had definitely taken effect. I scrambled to assemble my thoughts to say more than a simple utterance. I failed.

"Sheik," She said said, writing my name for the third time on the cup, shaking her head, "I should have known."

"What?"

She laughed. It was dazzling. "Do you honestly not recognize me?"

"Should I?" I asked, feeling as if I had just been caught with my hand in a cookie jar.

"Gods," she said, eyeing me, foxily, "Look at you!"

My cheeks flooded with heat. I looked at her carefully, searching for any telltale signs of recognition. None came. Her teeth were perfectly straight and white. She had thick dirty blonde hair with streaking green highlights that fell across her shoulders in feather soft wisps. She was tall, about my height, and had a very strong appearance.

My eyes continued to be drawn to hers, like bees to honey. I spent a good portion of five minutes gazing at her. She leaned across the counter. "Here's your coffee." I tried to take it, but her grip was firm.

"Did I ever tell you I wanted your beauty when I changed?"

Click.

"Link?"

She gave a quiet smile, like sharing a secret, and pushed the coffee into my hands. "Next!" she called, turning away.

"Hold on!"

"Oh, thank the gods, it's about damn time!" Another customer pushed into the counter and began his order. I slid away, dazed. When last I saw Link, she was a scrawny boy on puberty blockers. That was almost five years ago. I returned to my seat and sipped, my heart feeling like it was going to flutter away. It wasn't until I was almost done that I noticed the sequence of numbers scribbled over the side of my cup.

I looked back towards Link, wiping her workstation. Her eyes caught mine, and for the first time in a very long time, I felt happy.

Like I said before, the only magical beverage to lead you on an adventure is coffee.

* * *

**AN:** I feel I should probably explain myself. I was born, and identify as, female. If you've read some of my other stories, you probably can figure out that I am queer. I don't quite recall what prompted me to write this, I woke up yesterday with this idea in my mind and decided to write. There is no one in my life I personally know who is transgender. However, I think it's important to have stories like these out there. Not to sound critical, but the vast majority of fanfiction consists of straight couples and guy/guy or yaoi pairings. The majority of said fanfiction is written predominantly by females. There is no problem with this. I think it's actually healthy to explore sexuality in more intellectual ways than we are exposed through mass media. I've noticed that the smallest fanfiction communities are stories which have transgender characters, and or feature femmeslash pairings, and ones in which these characters and pairings are taken seriously. I feel that it's important to have a greater variety of these stories out there.

I know cafe stories are cliched by now, but I couldn't help myself.

I technically have an outline for a greater story. If I get at least 15 points of contact (email, pm, review, if you happen to know me, do tap my shoulder in the library) I will continue it. Otherwise, I'll leave it as is. Thank you for taking the time to read this story. If you happened to last this long, please drop a review.


	2. Chapter 2

It all started with Link's number. The numbers were hurriedly scrawled in bleeding pen on a torn square of loose leaf I could spare. The folded sheet fell out of my pants pocket while I was doing laundry, and I nearly had a heart attack there on the spot. It would admittedly be a very peculiar place to have a heart attack. It's a small alcove upstairs beside Tingle's room that's a peeling maroon red, and it's usually droning with the sounds of the old-style washing and drying machines. Tingle's snores could be heard through the walls and from beneath the crack at the bottom of the door.

I know what you're probably thinking. Why haven't I called her yet? It's been three days. I don't have the greatest excuse to give you quite yet, so I'll distract you with a different monologue.

The whole heart attack thing might seem hyperbolic. It is not. I literally clutched my chest and let out an exclamation loud enough to wake Tingle. His lumbering form approached the opposite side of the door, banged it open, and glared at me through bloodshot eyes. I gave him a wave. He responded with something incomprehensible, but I think I got what he meant, and he slammed the door shut. My heart was still pounding for several moments afterwards, all the while I remained frozen on the spot.

The thought of the heart attack itself came to me the moment I whipped out the crumpled sheet of paper. With it came that peculiar, bubbly, slightly sadistic feeling you get when you contemplate your own mortality and how funny it would be if you suddenly just fell over and died one day. Please tell me I'm not the only one who does this. It's not like it's a conscious decision or anything. Maybe at one time I was, but right now I am not suicidal. It's a kind of thing that tends to happen on its own. Sometimes when I'm wandering at night in a flash I'll see myself falling down the stairs and hitting my head and spilling my brains all over the wooden steps, or when I'm out walking the street I'll see myself getting hit by an inattentive driver and breaking all the bones in my body. I wouldn't really call myself paranoid, but it definitely makes me more cautious and conscious of my surroundings.

In this particular instance, finding Link's number in my pockets right before tossing my pantaloons into the washer was almost metaphorical to keeling over and dying. Had mom not terrorized me into always checking my pockets before doing the wash, Link's number would have been gone, swept away into the foaming, gyrating abyss. In retrospect, this seems to lean towards the melodramatic, so I'm going to blame sucky female hormones on this: I was absolutely certain my happiness would have been over then and there. I may or may not have visualized the piece of paper between my fingers being rendered to mush with amazement at my own stupidity.

I immediately dropped everything, leaving the laundry to languish on the floor, and raced out of the room to grab a pen downstairs. I pulled any piece of paper I could find and wrote her number down. A coffee receipt, an electric bill, some random ranty drabbles I wrote about a month ago...no free floating sheet of paper was spared my pen and frantic scribbling. I was on a roll. Within fifteen minutes my hand was cramping, but her number was both seared into my retinas and had become my new wall art. I could proudly say her number backwards and forwards with my eyes closed. I was so completely elated and giddy that I had to sit down and take some breaths. It was practically like having coffee in my system.

Please note that this was all done with heavy bruising, so I think some congratulations are in order. I look a bit like a bruised banana, and I feel like I've been dragged a hundred miles on gravel. I know it sounds like an exaggeration, but I swear it's just about the only way I can describe it. When I try to move certain muscles or do certain movements, like twisting to look behind me or lifting my left arm higher than head level, it feels like barbed wire is being woven through my skin and around my bones. I can normally bear it doing menial tasks at Telma's and maneuvering the house, but every once in awhile I'll do a sudden movement, the pain will catch me by surprise and I'll let out a long stream of colorful linguistics. What's most annoying is that I'm still limping from place to place, and it's been several days since the incident. Telma's noticed. She's having me only bus tables and not serve so I don't scare the patrons. I'm okay with it I guess (I make more money serving, since bussers and servers are tipped separately). Telma 's making it so that I don't have to interact with people during my moontime…(ugh!)...which is thankfully almost over.

Telma has been worried about me. She's been threatening to throw me in the back of her pickup with a gag and forcibly take me to the hospital if I'm not better by next week. I think she's mostly joking. I'd wager fifty-six percent joking. Secretly, I would love to know what she would say to the cops if we got pulled over on the way to the hospital. Probably something badass. Like I said before, she cares about her employees, and I think it shook her up to see me walk through her doors looking like a human punching bag. She re-did the schedule so I would have today off. It's screwing me over in terms of rent, but she threatened to fire me if I showed up today. I'd wager she was three percent joking.

I'm not entirely sure if I can really explain exactly what having Link's number is like. Why I suddenly have this huge rush of adrenaline. Why I'm grinning like a dolt just like I was in the coffee shop. It's a complicated feeling. I've suddenly found myself happier than I could have imagined just days ago. Most absurdly, the source of this happiness is something very simple. Numbers on a folded sheet of paper. Just as I was beginning to accept my life as one without much happiness, now, numbers on a page copied from a cup of coffee, written over and over again, suddenly have the power to make me happy. Isn't that just insane?

Then again, maybe it isn't. Maybe the reason I'm so elated is obvious. Link. She's my reason. I look up to her, find her incredible and amazing. The fact that she forged her own path and went all the way through with her transition takes more courage than I can imagine. Having her number and writing it down is like a mantra: I am not alone. Link went through this too. Going from having your ass kicked in the back alley of a nightclub because the world hates you, to suddenly seeing someone who has found her way in the same world as a transgender individual is not only amazing, but utterly inspirational. It's one of those Gee, I'd Love to Be Where You Are Now scenarios. I know she's probably got her own shit to face, but at the very least she seems happy with her body now, and that's always just been my goal from the beginning. Just knowing her, having some piece of her, is like knowing that I'm not lost. I can do this too. I, too, can achieve my goals just like any other human in this world is entitled to. That's empowering. She is walking, talking, living proof that we are not freaks. We are not abominations of this earth as some people would have you think. We are people. Entitled to happiness, capable of loving and being loved. We feel things. And we can overcome. It is through her, and any part of her, that I can finally find hope for my own future. That hope which I've been reaching for during these years of uncertainty and confusion.

On a more basic level, I think the most obvious reason is that I might be falling for her. Okay, I'll admit that I don't really know her that well, but I would at least like to. It's only been, like, five years? I mean, damn, she is _hot_. And she was totally flirting with me too. I think she and I already have enough common ground to understand where we're both coming from. And really, what were the odds of meeting each other here of all places? I've already mentioned how big Kakariko is, the chances of us crossing paths again are slim. I'm not generally a very superstitious person, but you have to admit, these circumstances are just a little strange.

I should really just call her already, shouldn't I?


End file.
